Moondogs - Alexander Yates [92]
The trip out to Tagaytay took no time at all. Berto was an even greater maniac on the country roads than he was inside Manila—lead-footing the open stretches and braking hard at every turn, unable to maintain a constant speed without the orienting crush of traffic—and he got them there a good half hour before the scheduled meeting. Josephine’s restaurant was large and open on the inside, with floors of glazed granite and tables cut from dark wood. It was arranged more like a theater than a restaurant, the seating area divided into three steps that all faced the same set of floor-to-ceiling windows. Benicio’s travel guide mentioned this place. On a normal day the windows held a picture-perfect view of Taal volcano, but all he could see today was milky white. Clouds pressed against every square inch of glass, so thick that Josephine’s may as well have been adrift in the sky.
It was late for lunch but many tables were still full—packed with mothers ladling stew from steaming pots and pudgy boys in wooden booster-chairs drinking from green coconuts with twisty straws. Benicio sat at a table near the glass, ordered a San Miguel, and waited. He thought about going back outside to ask Edilberto to join him but decided against it—not sure what the etiquette was for drivers on the clock—and instead leafed through a menu to look busy and less alone. On the last page was an illustrated picture of the view he should have been enjoying—concentric craters and lakes, a young volcano inside of an older one.
“Boy, you’ve got some bad timing.” Benicio felt a hand on his shoulder, fingers grazing his neck. He turned to see Katrina standing over him. “Taal’s on break now,” she said. “I think the next show starts tomorrow morning.”
“Hi there.” Benicio stood. She turned down his awkward handshake for a quick, awkward hug.
“Bobby’s out parking the car,” she said. “He’ll be with us in a minute.”
“Does he need any help?”
“Probably. He won’t take any, though. Especially from you.” They sat and Katrina put both her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her palms. “So,” she said, “Bobby filled me in on the way here. I guess there was a bit of draaama,” she stretched the word in an attempted drawl, “last night? It’s a little embarrassing to admit, but I don’t really remember … well, any of it. That’s embarrassing isn’t it?” She paused. “And you know, I just wanted to say sorry. I mean, I don’t think I was, but just in case I was, you know, one of the chief offenders.”
“You weren’t. It was mostly my fault.”
“That’s what I suspected.” Her grin was oddly manic. “I mean, not about you, but about me. Because, normally, I’m pretty nice. But you never know. That’s an expectation I’ve been known to defy, from time to time. When drinking. And hey,” she gestured down to his still mostly full San Miguel, “I guess the night can’t have been a total bust. You converted, all the same.”
Bobby Dancer entered the restaurant some minutes later. He must have changed his bandages since that morning, because these were crisp and dry. In addition to layers of gauze he wore an airy cotton shirt and a pair of denim jeans—one of those expensive acid-wash brands that come pre-faded, pre-torn and pre-mended. Bobby waved at them and made his way over. He took the stairs slowly; his feet turned sideways like a mountain climber, one hand gripping the railing and the other balled tight around the head of his cane. Benicio rose to go to him but Katrina grabbed his forearm and pinned it to the table with surprising force.
“Well,” Bobby said when he finally reached them, “it’s good to see you.” He pulled a chair back, lowered himself into it like an old man, and leaned his cane against the table. “I was worried that we wouldn’t get